Batman: Nightwalker

This dark and twisty BATMAN in the blockbuster DC Icons series is an action-packed thrill ride from #1 New York Times bestselling author MARIE LU.

AN INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER

Before he was Batman, he was Bruce Wayne. A reckless boy willing to break the rules for a girl who may be his worst enemy.

The Nightwalkers are terrorizing Gotham City, and Bruce Wayne is next on their list. Bruce is turning eighteen and inheriting his family's fortune, not to mention the keys to Wayne Industries and all the tech gadgetry that he could ever desire. But on the way home from his birthday party, he makes an impulsive choice that leads to community service at Arkham Asylum, the infamous prison. There, he meets Madeleine Wallace, a brilliant killer with ties to the Nightwalkers. A girl who will only speak to Bruce. She is the mystery he must unravel, but is he convincing her to divulge her secrets, or is he feeding her the information she needs to bring Gotham City to its knees?

Bruce Wayne is proof that you don't need superpowers to be a super hero, but can he survive Madeleine's game of tense intrigue and deception?

Act fast! The first printing includes a poster of Bruce! Each first printing in the DC Icons series will have a limited-edition poster--collect them all to create the full image!

"Masterful. . . . A great story for any Dark Knight fan."--Den of Geek

Don't miss the rest of the DC Icons series! Read them in any order you choose: * Wonder Woman: Warbringer by Leigh Bardugo * Catwoman: Soulstealer by Sarah J. Maas * Superman: Dawnbreaker by Matt de la Peña

Batman: Nightwalker

By Marie Lu

PROLOGUE

The blood underneath her nails bothered her.

Cheap, stupid, useless gloves, the girl thought in annoyance. She had even worn two layers of them tonight, but a rare errant slash from the knife had sliced through both layers, and now the blood had gotten on her hands.Stupid. On any other night, she would have stopped and— carefully, methodically— scraped the scarlet flakes out from under her nails, one line after another. But she had no time right now.

No time, no time.

Moonlight cut across the floor of the mansion, illuminating part of the man’s naked body. He bled strangely, the girl thought,compared with the others. The blood just pooled beneath him in a perfect circle, like a disk of smooth frosting on a cake.

She sighed again and stuffed her canister of red spray paint into her backpack, then grabbed a few of the rags strewn on the floor. On the wall beside her was the symbol she had just hurriedly finished drawing.

They had mistimed everything tonight, from the unexpected complications of Sir Grant’s security system at the entrance of the mansion to the surprise of him seeing them first instead of being sound asleep. They were running late. She hated running late.

She hurried around the bedroom chamber, gathering their tools and stuffing them all into her backpack. The moonlight illuminated her features in regular intervals as she moved past the row of windows. Her mother used to tell her that she had doll- like features,had been doll- like since birth— large, liquid- dark eyes; long, long lashes; a slender nose and a rosebud of a mouth; porcelain skin. Her eyebrows cut straight and soft across her brow, giving her an expression that looked permanently vulnerable.

That was the thing about her. No one ever saw what mattered until it was too late. Until their blood stained her fingernails.

Her hair had come undone in all the rush, tumbling in a river of black over her shoulders, and she paused to whip it back up into a knot. No doubt a strand or two had come loose and were now lying somewhere on the floor, leaving a clue for the police to follow. But no matter— if she could just escape from here in time. What a messy getaway, so uncharacteristic of her.

She froze, her head turned in its direction, listening intently.Her hand flew instinctively to rest on one of the knives strapped around her thigh. Then she started to run. Her boots made no sound— she moved like a shadow, the only noise being the faint bump of her bag against her back. As she went, she pulled her black scarf up across the bottom half of her face, hiding her nose and mouth from view, and fitted her pair of dark visors over her eyes. Through the visors, the mansion transformed into a grid of heat signals and green lines.

The sirens were closing in rapidly.

She paused again for a breath, listening. They came from different directions— they were going to surround her. No time, no time.She darted down the mansion’s staircase, her figure lost entirely in the shadows, then made a sharp turn at the bottom to head not for the front door but for the cellar. The security system had been rewired to seal the front door’s lock from the inside, but the cellar was their getaway route, all alarms cleared and window locks ready for her command.

As she reached the cellar, the sirens outside turned deafening. The police had arrived.

“Window A open,” she muttered into her mouthpiece. At the other end of the room, the rewired window unlocked with a soft,obedient click. The police would gather at the front and back doors,but they wouldn’t think to look on the side of such a huge house yet, not without knowing there was a tiny window at ground level.

She ran faster.

She reached the window and started pulling herself up and through it, snaking her way out in the span of a second. On the front lawn, she could hear a police officer shouting into a mega-phone, could see the heat signals of at least a dozen guards in heavy body armor crouched around the mansion’s perimeter, their faces hidden behind helmets and their assault rifles all pointed toward the door.

She leaped to her feet in the darkness, pulled her visor up, and prepared to dart away.

A blinding light flooded over her.

“Hands in the air!”Several voices were shouting at her at the same time. She heard the clicks of loaded weapons, then the furious barking of police dogs barely restrained by their partners. “On your knees! Now!”

They had found her. She wanted to spit out a curse. No time, no time. And now it was too late. At least the others on the mission had already fled. For a fraction of a second, she thought about pulling out her knives and throwing herself at the closest officer, using him as a hostage shield.

But there were far too many here, and the light had blinded here enough to make her vision inaccurate. She didn’t have the time to make such a move without the police unleashing the dogs, and she had no desire to be mauled to death.

So instead, she put her hands up.

Officers shoved her hard to the ground; her face scraped against dirt and grass. She saw a glimpse of herself reflected in the police’s opaque helmets, and the barrels of guns pointed directly in her face.“We got her— !” one shouted into his radio, his voice hoarse with excitement and fear. “She’s in custody! Stand by— ”

You got me, she echoed to herself as she felt cold cuffs snap onto her wrists. But with her cheek pressed against the ground, she still allowed herself a small, mocking smile behind her scarf.

You got me . . . for now.

CHAPTER 1

If Bruce Wayne belonged in any car, it was this one: a brand- new,custom Aston Martin, mean and sleek and charcoal black, embellished with a stripe of metallic shine along its roof and hood.

Now he pushed the car to its limits, indulging in the roar of its engines, the way it responded to his slightest touch as it hugged the sunset streets right outside Gotham City. The vehicle was a gift from WayneTech, fitted with the latest WayneTech security features— a historic collaboration between the legendary car maker and the Wayne empire.

Now the tires screeched in protest as Bruce hit another sharp turn.

“I heard that,” said Alfred Pennyworth from the car’s live video touch screen. He gave Bruce a withering look. “A bit slower on the turns, Master Wayne.”

“Aston Martins weren’t made for slow turns, Alfred.”

“They weren’t made to be wrecked, either.”

Bruce smiled sidelong at his guardian. The setting sun glinted off his aviator sunglasses as he turned the car back in the direction of Gotham City’s skyscrapers. “No faith in me at all, Alfred,” he said lightly. “You’re the one who taught me how to drive in the first place.”

“And did I teach you to drive like a demon possessed?”

“A demon possessed with skills,” Bruce clarified. He spun the steering wheel in a smooth motion. “Besides, it’s a gift from Aston Martin, and it’s armed to the teeth with WayneTech security. The only reason I’m driving it at all is to show off its safety capabilities at the benefit tonight.”

Alfred sighed. “Yes. I remember.”

“And how can I do that properly without testing what this masterpiece can do?”

“Displaying WayneTech security at a benefit isn’t the same thing as using it to tempt death,” Alfred replied, his tone drier than ever. “Lucius Fox asked you to take the car to the party so that the press can do a proper write- up about it.”

Bruce made another hairpin turn. The car calculated the road ahead instantly, and on the windshield, he saw a series of transparent numbers appear and fade. Responding with uncanny precision,the car was in perfect sync with the road as it mapped out the surrounding terrain down to the last detail.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Bruce insisted, wide- eyed.“Trying to get it there on time.”

Alfred shook his head tragically as he dusted a windowsill at Wayne Manor, the sunlight casting his pale skin in shades of gold.“I’m going to kill Lucius for thinking this was a good idea.”

An affectionate smile lingered on Bruce’s lips. Sometimes he thought his guardian bore a remarkable resemblance to a timber wolf, with his attentive, world- weary winter- blue gaze. A few strands of white had started to streak Alfred’s hair over the past few years, and the crow’s- feet lining the corners of his eyes had deepened. Bruce wondered if he was the reason for it. At the thought,he slowed down just a little.

It was that time of evening when people could catch a glimpse of bats heading out into the night to hunt. As Bruce reached the inner city, he spotted a cloud of them silhouetted against the dimming sky, circling out of the city’s dark corners to join the rest of their colony.

Bruce felt the familiar tug of nostalgia. His father had once designated land near the Wayne mansion as one of the largest bat havens in the city. Bruce still had childhood memories of crouching there in awe on the front lawn, his toy gadgets forgotten as Dad pointed out the creatures streaming into the dusk by the thou-sands, sweeping across the sky in an undulating stripe. They were individuals, Dad had said, and yet they still knew, somehow, to move as one.

At the memory, Bruce’s hand tightened against the steering wheel. His father should be here, sitting in the passenger seat and observing the bats with him. But that, of course, was impossible.

The streets turned grungier as Bruce got closer to downtown,until the skyscrapers blocked out the lowering sun and shrouded alleyways in shadows. He streaked past Wayne Tower and the Seco Financial Building, where a few tents were pitched in its alleys— a stark contrast, poverty right next to a rich financial beacon. Nearby was the Gotham City Bridge, its repainting half finished. A collection of dilapidated, low- income homes sat haphazardly underneath it.

Bruce didn’t remember the city looking this way when he was younger— he had a memory of Gotham City as an impressive jungle of concrete and steel, filled with a rotation of expensive cars and doormen in black coats, the scent of new leather and men’s cologne and women’s perfume, the gleaming lobbies of fancy hotels,the deck of a yacht facing the city lights illuminating the harbor.

With his parents at his side, he’d only seen the good— not the graffiti, or the trash in the gutters, or the abandoned carts and people huddled in shadowed corners, jingling coins in paper cups.As a sheltered child, he’d seen only what Gotham City could give you for the right price, and none of what it did to you for the wrong one.

That had all changed on one fateful night.

Bruce had known he would be lingering on thoughts of his parents today, the day his trust funds opened. But as much as he braced himself for it, the memories still cut at his heart.

He pulled onto the road curving up toward Bellingham Hall. A red carpet spanned the front sidewalk and went up the steps, and a bevy of paparazzi had gathered beside the road, their cameras already flashing at his car.

“Master Wayne.”

Bruce realized that Alfred was still talking to him about safety.“I’m listening, Alfred,” he said.

“I doubt that. Did you hear me tell you to schedule a meeting with Lucius Fox tomorrow? You’re going to be working with him all summer— you should at least start putting together a detailed plan.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment at the mention of his mother. Instead of celebrating her birthday every year, she would throw a benefit, and the money raised went straight into the Gotham City Legal Protection Fund, a group that defended those who couldn’t afford to defend themselves in court. Bruce would carry on her tradition tonight, now that the responsibility for his family’s fortune had officially fallen on his shoulders.

You are Martha’s boy.But Bruce just shrugged off the praise,unsure how to accept it. “Thanks, Alfred,” he replied. “Don’t wait up for me.”

The two ended the call. Bruce pulled to a stop in front of the hall, and for a heartbeat he let himself sit there, stilling his emotions while the paparazzi shouted at him from outside the car.

He had grown up under the spotlight, had endured years of headlines about him and his parents. EIGHT-YEAR-OLD BRUCE WAYNE SOLE WITNESS TO PARENTS’ MURDER! BRUCE WAYNE SET T INHERIT FORTUNE! EIGHTEEN YEAR OLD BRUCE WAYNE NOW THE WORLD’S WEALTHIEST TEEN! On and on and on.

Alfred had filed restraining orders against photographers be-fore for pointing their long lenses at Wayne Manor’s windows, and Bruce had once run home from elementary school in tears, terrified of the eager paparazzi who had nearly hit him with their cars. He’d spent the first few years trying to hide from them— as if holing away in his room at the manor somehow meant that the tabloids wouldn’t make up new rumors.

But you either hid from reality, or you dealt with it. And overtime, Bruce had built up a shield, had negotiated an unspoken truce with the press.He would show up with his carefully cultivated public demean-or, let them take the photos they wanted. In return, they’d shine the spotlight on the issue of his choice. And right now that issue was WayneTech’s work to make Gotham City safer— everything from new security technology for the city’s bank accounts to drones that aided the Gotham City Police Department to auto safety features that they would release for free, open- source technology to all car-makers.

Over the years, Bruce had spent countless nights hunched at his bedroom desk, listening obsessively to police scanners and following cold cases on his own. He had burned out dozens of light-bulbs while deconstructing WayneTech prototypes under his desk lamp in the darkness before dawn, holding up glittering microchips and artificial joints, studying the technology his corporation was making to improve the city’s safety.

If forwarding that agenda meant being in the news, well then,so be it.

As a valet rushed over to open his car door, Bruce veiled his discomfort, stepped out with a single, graceful move, and gave the reporters a flawless smile. The cameras went into overdrive. A pair of bodyguards in black suits and dark shades shoved people back,clearing a path for him, but the reporters still crowded in, their microphones extended, shouting questions.

“Are you looking forward to your graduation?” “Are you enjoying your new wealth?” “How do you feel about being the world’s youngest billionaire?” “Who are you dating, Bruce?” “Hey, Bruce, look this way! Give us a smile!”

Bruce obliged, offering them an easy grin. He knew he photo-graphed well— long and lean, his blue eyes dark as sapphire against his white complexion, his black hair perfectly smoothed back, his suit tailored and oxfords polished. “Good evening,” he said as he stood for a moment in front of the car.

Bruce just looked at him steadily, refusing to take the bait.“This is the newest Aston Martin on the market, fully equipped with WayneTech safety technology. You are welcome to explore its interior tonight for an exclusive first look.” He held his hand out toward the car, where one of his suited guards had opened the door for the press to peek in. “Thank you all for covering my mother’s benefit tonight. It means a lot to me.”

He continued talking for a bit about the charity that the event would support, but everyone shouted right over him, ignoring his words. Bruce faced them wearily, and for an instant, he felt alone and outnumbered. His gaze scanned past the tabloid paparazzi,searching for the journalists from official papers. He could already see the headlines tomorrow: BRUCE WAYNE BLOWS NEW MONEY ON MILLION-DOLLAR CAR! TRUST FUND BABY WASTES NO TIME! But interspersed with those would hopefully be a few true headlines, detailing the work being done at WayneTech. That was what mattered. So he lingered, enduring the photos.

After letting the cameras flash wildly for a few moments, Bruce made his way up toward the hall’s entrance. Other guests lingered at the top of the stairs— members of Gotham City’s upper class,the occasional council member, clusters of admirers. Bruce found himself categorizing everyone in the crowd. It was a survival skill he’d learned since his parents’ deaths. There were the people who’d invite him to dinner only in an attempt to get gossip out of him.The people willing to betray friends in order to become his. The occasional wealthy classmate who’d spread lies about him out of bitter envy. The ones who’d do anything to get a date with him and then share the details with the rags the next morning.

But on the surface, he kept his cool, greeting everyone politely. Only a few more steps until he’d reach the entrance. All he had to do was make it inside, and then he could find—

“Bruce!”

A familiar voice cut above the chaos. Bruce looked up to where a girl was standing on tiptoe and waving at him from the top of the stairs. Dark hair skimmed her shoulders, and the hall’s floor lights highlighted her brown skin and the round curve of her hips. There was glitter woven into the fabric of her dress, shimmering silver as she moved. “Hey!” she called. “Over here!”

As he reached her, she instinctively turned her back on the crowd stuck behind the velvet rope at the bottom of the stairs in an attempt to shield him from the flashing cameras.

“Fashionably late on your birthday?” she said with a grin.He gave her a grateful wink and leaned down closer to her ear.“Always.”

“This benefit is insane,” she went on. “I think you might set anew record for how much money it’ll raise.”

“Thank god,” he replied, throwing an arm around her neck.“Otherwise I’d have put up with all the cameras down there for nothing.”

She laughed. This was the girl who had once punched a tooth out of a kid for harassing her friends, who had memorized the en-tire first chapter of A Tale of Two Citiesin senior- year English to win a bet, and who could spend an hour staring at a menu only to order the same burger she always got. Now Dianne shoved him off in affectionate protest, grabbed his arm, and led him through the open doors of the hall, leaving the paparazzi behind.

Inside, the lighting was dim, an atmospheric blue, and chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, glinting bright silver and white. Ice sculptures and spreads of food covered long banquet tables, while another table was lined with rows of auction items, all trembling slightly from the beat of the music.

“I thought you had a college interview today,” he said over the noise as Dianne swiped a lemon tart from one of the dessert stands.“Not that I’m complaining about you being here, of course.”

“It was earlier,” Dianne replied through a mouthful of pastry.“It’s okay. My lola needed me home in the afternoon to pick up my brother, and besides, I couldn’t bear the thought of robbing you of my company tonight.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to an ominous whisper. “That was my way of saying I didn’t get you anything.”

“Nothing at all?” Bruce put a hand over his heart in mock pain.“You wound me.”

“If you’d like, I could always bake you a cake.”

“Please don’t.” The last time Dianne had attempted to make cookies, she’d set Bruce’s kitchen on fire, and they’d spent the next hour hiding the scorched kitchen drapes so that Alfred wouldn’t know.

Dianne squeezed his arm once. “You’ll just have to settle for diner food tonight, then.”

Years ago, Bruce, Harvey, and Dianne had all agreed to forgo birthday presents in exchange for an annual date at their favorite local diner. It would be where they’d meet up tonight, too, after the benefit ended, and Bruce could shed the billionaire and just be a boy on the cusp of graduating from high school, getting teased by two of his best friends over fat burgers and thick milk shakes. He smiled in anticipation at the thought.

“Well?” he asked Dianne. “How’d the interview go?”

“The interviewer didn’t faint in horror at my answers, so I’m going out on a limb to say it went well.” She shrugged.

And that was Dianne’s way of saying she’d aced it, just like she aced everything else in life.Bruce had come to recognize her shrug whenever she tried to downplay an achievement— getting a perfect score on her entrance exams, being admitted to every university she applied to, and speaking as their class valedictorian at graduation next month.

She smiled. “All Harvey’s done tonight is beg me not to leave him alone on the dance floor. You know how much his two left feet love to dance.”

Bruce laughed. “Isn’t he alone on the floor right now?”

Dianne grinned mischievously. “Oh, he can survive for two minutes.”

The music grew louder and louder as they neared the dance floor, until finally they stepped through a set of double doors and onto a balcony that overlooked a packed space. Here, the music shook the floors. A haze of mist hugged the ground level. On the stage below was an elaborate stand, behind which stood a DJ, bobbing his head in time to the beat. Behind him, an enormous screen stretched from floor to ceiling and played a series of moving, flashing patterns.

Dianne cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted down at the crowd. “He’s here!”

An enormous cheer exploded from the dance floor, drowning out even the music. Bruce looked on as the crowd’s roar of “Happy birthday!” filled the room. Bruce smiled and waved at the crowd, and as he did, the DJ sped up the track. Then he dropped the beat hard, and the crowd became a sea of pumping limbs.

Bruce let the pounding music fill his senses, and whatever lingering unease he’d felt now faded away. Dianne led him down the stairs and into the crowd. As he greeted one person after another,pausing to take selfies with some, he lost Dianne in the tangle of bodies, until all he could see was a blur of familiar and strange faces, every outline lit up in slices of neon and darkness.

There she is.Dianne had reached Harvey Dent, who looked chalky under the club lights as he tried his best to move with the beat. Bruce smiled at the sight, then started making his way across the dance floor toward them. They waved him over.

“Bruce!”

He turned at the voice, but before he could even reply, some-body was clapping him hard on the shoulder. A face came into focus, grinning harshly, his white teeth even whiter against his paleface. “Hey— happy birthday, man!”

Richard Price, the son of Gotham City’s current mayor. Bruce blinked in surprise. It had been months since they last talked, but Richard had already grown a few inches taller, so that Bruce had to look up slightly to meet the other boy’s gaze. “Hey,” he replied,returning Richard’s embrace. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“And miss your shindig? Never,” Richard replied. “My dad’s here— out in the auction hall, anyway. He never missed any of your mom’s benefits, and he won’t do it now.”

Bruce nodded warily. They had once been best friends— they lived at opposite ends of the same gated neighborhood of exclusive estates, had attended the same middle school and the same parties,had even taken kickboxing classes at the same gym. They’d played video games in Bruce’s theater room, laughing themselves silly until their stomachs hurt. Even now Bruce felt a pang at the memory.

But things had changed as they grew older, and Richard had gradually fallen into a specific category of his own: the kind of friend who called you only when he needed something from you.

Bruce wondered what it would be tonight.“Hey,” Richard said now, his eyes darting to one side. He kept his hand on Bruce’s shoulder as he gestured up to the exit. “Can I talk to you somewhere? Just for a sec?”

“Sure.”

Bruce’s ears rang as they headed off the dance floor and into a quieter hall. There, Richard turned around and looked at Bruce with an eager grin. In spite of himself, Bruce could feel his spirits lift at the expression— it was the same grin Richard used to give him when they were kids and Richard had found something exciting that he had to share. Maybe he really was here just to celebrate Bruce’s birthday.

Richard stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Look,” he said.“Dad’s on my case. He keeps asking me if I’ve got an internship lined up for the summer. Can you help me out?”

Bruce’s moment of hope flickered out, replaced by a familiar sinking feeling of disappointment. Richard needed something again. “I can recommend you to Lucius Fox,” he started to say.“WayneTech is looking for interns— ”

Richard shook his head. “No, I mean, I don’t actually want to be at the internship. Just, you know, put in a word for me with my dad, tell him I’m doing stuff at WayneTech this summer, and let me into the building a couple of times.”

Bruce frowned at him. “You mean, help you fake that you’re at an internship, just so your dad won’t bother you anymore?”

Richard gave him a halfhearted nudge. “It’s the last summerbefore college starts. I don’t want to spend it working— yeah, youknow how it is, Wayne, right? Just tell my dad I’m working withLucius. It won’t be a big deal.”

“And how are you going to keep it up?”

“I told you— just let me into WayneTech every now and then. Take a photo of me in the lobby or something. It’s all my dad needs to see.”

“I don’t know, man. Lucius will just tell your dad the truth, if he gets wind of it.”

“Oh, come on, Bruce! For old times’ sake.” Richard’s grin was still on as he reached to shake Bruce’s shoulder once. “It’s your company, isn’t it? You’re gonna let that nerd tell you what to do?”

Bruce bristled. Richard had fawned all over Lucius when he’d first met him. “I’m not covering for you,” he said. “If you want to tell your dad you’re interning at WayneTech, you’ll have to actually do the internship.”

Richard made an annoyed sound in his throat. “What’s it to you?”

“Why are you insisting?”

“All you have to do is mention it once or twice to my dad. It’s not like it’ll cost you anything.”

Bruce shook his head. When they were younger, Richard would show up unannounced at his front gate, talking breathlessly over the intercom, holding the latest game or the newest set of action figures. At some point, their hangouts shifted from debates about what their favorite movies were to requests from Richard to copy Bruce’s homework or for Bruce to finish their group projects on his own or put in a good word for him for jobs.

When had he changed? Even now Bruce couldn’t understand when or why it’d all gone wrong.

“I can’t,” Bruce said, shaking his head again. “I’m sorry.”

At that, Richard’s eyes seemed to shutter. He searched Bruce’s gaze as if expecting a different answer, but when it didn’t come, he grimaced and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, whatever,” he muttered, stepping around Bruce to head back down the hall.“I see how it is. You turn eighteen and get the keys to your empire,and suddenly you’re too good to help out your friends.”

“Richard,” Bruce called out. The other boy paused to look over his shoulder. Bruce stared at him for a moment. “If you hadn’t wanted my help, would you have come to the party tonight?”

There was a pause, and Bruce knew that the answer was no.Instead, Richard just shrugged at him, then turned around and continued down the hall without answering.

Bruce stood there for a moment, alone, listening to the pounding music coming from inside. He felt a sudden rush of not belonging here, not even at his own event. He pictured the crowd of his classmates and friends on the dance floor and wondered if, aside from Dianne and Harvey, any of them would be here if it weren’t for his family name. The paparazzi outside wouldn’t, that was for sure.

If he were just Bruce Wayne, the boy next door, would anyone care?

Instead of heading back to the dance floor, Bruce made his way down the hall and through a nondescript door that led outside. He walked around the building until he reached the front entrance,where the cameras had already gotten what they wanted from the Aston Martin and were now clustered at the top of the stairs, waiting for special guests to enter or leave. Unnoticed, Bruce reached the car and got in. One of the bodyguards watching the paparazzi at the entrance spotted him right as he shut the car door and revved the engine.

“Mr. Wayne, sir!” the man said, but Bruce just gave him a terse nod. Through the window, he could see some of the paparazzi turn in his direction and realize that he was leaving. Their eyes widened,and their chatter morphed into shouts.But Bruce slammed his foot down on the gas pedal before any-one could reach him. In the rearview mirror, the hall shrank quickly away. Maybe it was rude of him to leave his benefit so soon, to get some time alone when everyone wanted his time for themselves.

But he didn’t slow down, and he didn’t look back.

CHAPTER 2

Neon lights smeared across the evening streets of Gotham City.Few cars were on the road at this hour, and all Bruce could hear was the rush of pavement and wind, the sound of his car tearing down the freeway. That was what drew him to machines. They fol-lowed algorithms, not emotion; when Bruce pushed his foot down on the pedal, the car only responded in one way.

Somewhere behind him, he could see the headlights of paparazzi attempting to follow him. Bruce allowed himself a cynical smile and edged the speedometer higher and higher. The world blurred around him.A harsh beep rang out in the car, followed by an electronic voice. “Speed not recommended for this road,” it said, and at the same time, one corner of the windshield lit up with a recommended speed and a blinking marker telling Bruce to slow down.“Override,” Bruce replied. The alerts faded. He could feel the car lock itself tighter in position on the road, so that if he seemed to be even slightly shaky, the car would compensate by steadying itself.

At least WayneTech’s features were working as they should, he thought darkly. Lucius would be happy to hear it.

The car’s phone rang, echoing in Bruce’s ears. When he glanced down at the caller ID, he saw that it was Dianne. Bruce let it ring a few times before he finally answered. Dianne’s voice filled the car,along with the din of the party behind her.

“Bruce?” she shouted over the noise. “Where’d you go? I saw you step away with Richard, but then I heard you left, and— ”

“I did leave,” Bruce replied.“What? Are you okay?” That was Harvey’s voice, anxious.“I’m fine,” Bruce reassured them. “Don’t worry. I just needed to get some air and clear my head.”

There was a pause on the other end before Dianne spoke up again. “Do what you need to do,” she replied.“And if you need us,” Harvey added, “we’ll head to you.”

Bruce relaxed a little at their words. The three of them had all gotten to the point where they could sense each other’s moods, so that none of them needed to explain a thing. They just knew.

“Thanks.” Then he hung up.

He had no idea where he was driving to, but after a while he realized he was taking a long route back in the direction of the manor. Bruce exited the freeway onto a local street, passing rows of dilapidated apartment buildings, their walls permanently stained from decades of water and filth. Clothes hung limply on lines from one window to another. Steam billowed up from vents. He swerved neatly through traffic, then made a sharp turn at an intersection,where he paused at a stoplight.

Outside his car window, an old man was crawling into his makeshift tent, while at the end of the block another man was stuffing old newspaper into his shoes. A pair of kids played in an alley piled high with trash.

Bruce looked away. He shouldn’t be here. And yet here he was, driving through the slums in a car that probably cost more than what a person living here could earn in a lifetime. Did he have aright to ever feel sad, with everything he had in his life?

These were the streets that his parents had fought all their lives to improve, and they were the same streets where their blood had been shed. Bruce took a deep breath as the light turned green and he revved his engine. Gotham City was broken in many ways, but it wasn’t beyond repair. He would find a way to fix it. It was the mantle he’d been handed.

Soon the streets changed back to unbroken streetlights and unbarred windows. The paparazzi were slowly but surely gaining on him; if he didn’t throw them off now, they would end up parked outside his mansion gates, fabricating tabloid headlines for why he left his party early. Bruce’s eyes darkened at the thought, and he sped up until the car’s warning beep went off again.

It wasn’t until he reached another series of stoplights that he heard the echo of police sirens.

Bruce wondered for an instant if the sirens were for him, the police busting him for speeding. Then he realized that the sound was coming from somewhere up ahead— and not just from a single vehicle, but from what must be dozens.

Curiosity cut through his dark mood. Bruce frowned as he listened to the wails. He had spent enough time following criminal cases on his own that the sound of sirens always made him sit up straighter. For this area of the city, an upscale shopping neighbor-hood, the sheer intensity of them seemed out of place. Bruce took a detour from the route that would have taken him back toward Wayne Manor, and instead headed in the direction of the sirens.

As he rounded another bend, the wails suddenly turned deafening, and a mass of flashing red and blue lights blinked against the buildings near the end of the street. White barricades and yellow police tape completely blocked the intersection. Even from here, Bruce could see fire engines and black SWAT trucks clustered together, the silhouettes of police running back and forth in front of the headlights.

Inside his car, the electronic voice came on again, followed by a transparent map overlaid against his windshield. “Heavy police activity ahead. Alternate route suggested.”

A sense of dread filled his chest.

Bruce flicked away the map and pulled to an abrupt halt in front of the barricade— right as the unmistakable pop- pop- pop of gunfire rang out in the night air.

He remembered the sound all too well. The memory of his parents’ deaths sent a wave of dizziness through him.Another robbery. A murder. That’s what all this is.

Then he shook his head. No, that can’t be right. There were far too many cops here for a simple robbery.

“Step out of your vehicle, and put your hands in the air!” a police officer shouted through a megaphone, her voice echoing along the block. Bruce’s head jerked toward her. For an instant, he thought her command was directed at him, but then he saw that her back was turned, her attention fixed on the corner of the building bearing the name BELLINGHAM INDUSTRIES & CO. “We have you surrounded, Nightwalker! This is your final warning!”

Another officer came running over to Bruce’s car. He whirled an arm exaggeratedly for Bruce to turn his car around. His voice harsh with panic, he warned, “Turn back now. It’s not safe!”

Before Bruce could reply, a blinding fireball exploded behind the officer. The street rocked.

Even from inside his car, Bruce felt the heat of the blast. Every window in the building burst simultaneously, a million shards of glass raining down on the pavement below. The police ducked in unison, their arms shielding their heads. Fragments of glass dinged like hail against Bruce’s windshield.

From inside the blockade, a white car veered around the corner at top speed. Bruce saw immediately what the car was aiming for— a slim gap between the police barricades where a SWAT team truck had just pulled through.

The car raced right toward the gap.

“I said, get out of here!” the officer shouted at Bruce. A thin ribbon of blood trickled down the man’s face. “That is an order!”

Bruce heard the scream of the getaway car’s tires against the asphalt. He’d been in his father’s garage a thousand times, helping him tinker with an endless number of engines from the best cars in the world. At WayneTech, Bruce had watched in fascination as tests were conducted on custom engines, conceptual jets, stealth tech, new vehicles of every kind.

And so he knew: whatever was installed under that hood was faster than anything the GCPD could hope to have.

They’ll never catch him.

But I can.

His Aston Martin was probably the only vehicle here that couldovertake the criminal’s, the only one powerful enough to chase itdown. Bruce’s eyes followed the path the car would likely take, hisgaze settling on a sign at the end of the street that pointed towardthe freeway.

I can get him.

The white getaway vehicle shot straight through the gap in the barricade, clipping two police cars as it went.

No, not this time. Bruce slammed his gas pedal.

The Aston Martin’s engine let out a deafening roar and sped forward. The officer who’d shouted at him stumbled back. In the rearview mirror, Bruce saw him scramble to his feet and wave the other officers’ cars forward, both his arms held high.

The getaway car made a sharp turn at the first intersection, and Bruce sped behind it a few seconds later. The street zigzagged, then turned in a wide arc as it led toward the freeway— and the Night-walker took the on- ramp, leaving a trail of exhaust and two black skid marks on the road.

Bruce raced forward in close pursuit; his car mapped the ground instantly, swerving in a perfect curve to follow the ramp onto the freeway. He tapped twice on the windshield right over where the Nightwalker’s white vehicle was.

“Follow him,” Bruce commanded.

It was a feature meant to make it easier for two cars to caravan with each other. Now a green target highlighted over the white car,and the Aston Martin’s voice spoke up: “Car locked on.”A small map appeared on the corner of the windshield, showing exactly where the getaway car was in proximity to Bruce. No matter how much the white car tried to escape now, it wouldn’t be able to shake him.

Bruce narrowed his eyes and urged the car faster. His entire body tingled from the rush of adrenaline. “Override,” he said the instant the car tried to get him to slow down. He snaked between cars from one lane to another. The Aston Martin responded withblinding accuracy, knowing exactly when he could cut into a nar-row space and how fast he needed to be.

Already Bruce was catching up to the Nightwalker’s car, and the Nightwalker knew it. The other car started to cut wildly back and forth. The few vehicles still on the freeway swerved out of their way as they wove in and out between lanes.

A spotlight flooded Bruce and the freeway in front of him. He glanced up to see a black chopper flying low and parallel to their chase. Far behind him were the flashing lights of the GCPD cars, but they were a distant sight, getting rapidly smaller.

What the hell am I doing?Bruce thought in a feverish daze. But he didn’t let up on the gas. Instead, he leaned back and floored the pedal. His eyes were fixed on the swerving white car before him.

Just a little more.Bruce was so close now that he could see the driver look back to glare at him. The white car swerved around a truck carrying a load of enormous pipes, forcing the driver into Bruce’s lane. The Aston Martin beeped a warning as it automatically veered to the side. Bruce yanked the steering wheel sharply.For an instant, he thought he would hit the side of the truck— but his car slid into the lane by the barest of margins, a perfect fit.

In this moment, in spite of everything, Bruce felt invincible,even natural, his focus narrowing in on nothing but the sight of his target and the thud of his heart.

Overhead, the voice from the chopper’s megaphone called out to him. “Pull over,” it shouted. “Civilian, stand down. You will be arrested. Stop your vehicle!”

But Bruce had caught up to his target.Almost there. He tightened his grip on his steering wheel, hoping his calculations were correct. If he clipped him in the rear correctly, the Nightwalkercar’s speed and friction would probably flip him. It ends here.

Alfred’s going to kill me.

Bruce patted the steering wheel once. His heart twisted for an instant at what he was about to do. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured to the Aston Martin.

Then he sped up. The car tried to stop him this time, and he felt the resistance in the steering wheel against his move. “ALERT! Collision ahead!”

“Override,” Bruce shouted, then rammed his vehicle into the back of the Nightwalker’s car.

The crunch of metal slamming into metal.

Bruce felt a shock wave ripple through his body as his neck whipped sideways and he was hurled in an arc, his seat belt cutting into his chest from the force. The other car’s tires screamed against the pavement— or maybe that was Bruce, he wasn’t sure— and he saw the vehicle flip, momentarily airborne. The world streaked around him. For an instant, he caught a glimpse of the driver’s face— a man, eyes wide, his pale skin dotted with blood.

The white car crashed upside down. Glass exploded out in all directions as the metal frame crushed into a gnarled mass. Even though Bruce knew, as he shook his head groggily, that everything must have taken less than a second, he felt like he could see the metal twisting section by section, the million individual splinters of the windows cutting through the air.

Police swarmed the white car, their rifles pointed directly at the driver inside. He looked conscious, if barely, his arms dangling upside down in the car.

“Don’t move, Nightwalker!”an officer yelled. “You’re under arrest!”

Bruce felt another wave of dizziness hit. As one of the officers approached him, shouting angrily now, Bruce heard his car issue a voice call alerting Alfred as well as sending his coordinates to him and the police.

“Alfred,” Bruce heard himself say. “Could use a pickup.” He couldn’t understand what Alfred said in reply— he wasn’t even sure if he couldhearAlfred’s words. All he remembered was slumping in his seat, and the world going dark.